


ships to wreck

by halcyonidae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bedsharing, Depression, F/M, HP: EWE, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyonidae/pseuds/halcyonidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, there's a steep learning curve on coping and living. Post-DH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ships to wreck

**Author's Note:**

> For #4.
> 
> SORRY, I TRIED. /o\ I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!

Despite having been occupied since late September, the flat was stacked from floor to ceiling with boxes. At first, Harry and Ron kept telling themselves that eventually they would find the right weekend to finally finish setting up the apartment; it was November when Ron had unpacked the box labelled 'POTS'. Consequently, the flat looked closer to a war zone than anything habitable.

There was a crinkled Chudley Cannons poster taped crookedly over the only sofa, which had been a relic from Grimmauld Place; it was brought over after Kreacher had spent a month bemoaning the fact that Master Harry might starve on his own. The fireplace, which the realtor told them came as a ready Floo Gate, was one of the higher selling points of the place; on the mantel they had pinned misshapen colorful socks hand knitted by Dobby Harry found once he had emptied the last layer of his old school trunk. A dingy kitchen with towers of dishes still wrapped in Anti-Shatter Sheets overlooked a narrow alley of trash bins; pinned on the fridge was a wide array of take-out menus and bills. The trash was overflowing with greasy containers.

“FIRE ON THE PREMISES. CASTING EVANESCO IS ADVISED. FIRE ON THE PREMISES.”

Harry's head swiveled over from where he was bent over a parchment of wrinkled instructions and a box full of dismantled furniture pieces. A fort of half-built chairs and a two-legged table caged him into the corner, discouraging results from the loving labor of two hours.

“What? Fuck!” Ron stumbled out of the bathroom, bright yellow rubber gloves dripping with soap water. He grabbed the pot holders, elbowed the window open, and shoved the smoking pan out of the smoking oven, his wand already waving over the burnt contents. The smell of charred meat filtered out of the apartment as December air came rushing in; Harry could hear a street choir singing the last refrain of _God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs_ in the distance.

“Stupid roast,” Ron said as he threw the potholders down in disgust. “Oy, weren't you paying attention?”

Harry squinted at him. “I don't think paying attention would've saved the roast,” he said, and stared down at the golden letters proclaiming ARGO'S GOLDEN READY-MADES: JUST BUILD AND GO. He crumpled up the piece of parchment and tossed it at the limbless golems he had made. He sighed, ran his hand through his hair, flattened the messy stuck up locks. “I figured it'd be nice not to have to eat on the floor for once. Actually, I wanted to get anything built before Hermione comes back,” he added gloomily, nudging the half-built chairs around him with his toe.

Ron slumped over the ratty sofa and groaned. “Adulthood is going really poorly.”

“This is ridiculous!” Harry kicked at one of the offending chairs. One of the legs swiveled sadly. “How do other people do it? Surely waving my wand and muttering isn't hard.”

There was a creak as Ron leaned over the arm of the sofa to study Harry's corner. “Alright, give it here. I've watched Dad put it together before.” He pulled off the rubber gloves with a snap and picked up the crumpled ball, smoothing it out over his knee, studying it intently before he looked up at Harry and grinned. “Yeah, I can totally do this. You want to take over cleaning the flat?”

Harry groaned in response and slumped against the wall, his head hitting the wall with a thunk. “It would help if either of us were any good at household spells.”

“If Hermione was here, we would be aces by now, I bet.” Ron glanced at his watch and his face brightened. “Speaking of, she's going to be here in two hours.” He jumped off the sofa and held out a hand to Harry, who let himself be pulled to his feet. “Fuck the roast,” Ron said cheerfully. “At least we can try to make this place look presentable.”

Harry snorted. “Presentable is a pretty high goal to aim for.” He took the rubber gloves anyway.

“You'll get the bathroom and the bedroom, I'll get the furniture, then we tackle the kitchen, yeah?” Ron offered as he unceremoniously flipped the box over, kicked some of the pieces to the side, and sat in the middle, studying them intently as if he was in the middle of a chess match.

Harry stuck the rubber gloves in his back pocket. “Yeah, okay. Deal.”

 

The bedroom was cramped, with two beds and a dresser crammed in between; when they had begun their search, they had soon realized that real estate in Diagon Alley was exorbitant at best. Still, they had managed to find an apartment at the very edge, above a street full of murky secondhand shops and suspiciously decent fish and chips. Very quickly Harry had found that living with Ron was unlike the Gryffindor dormitory or the Dursleys'; for one, feeding themselves properly was just as mind bogglingly difficult even when they weren't on the run. For another, anything that found itself on the floor seemed to stay there for a rather smelly eternity.

Harry surveyed the comforters lying crumpled on the floor, the piles of clean and dirty clothes in separate corners, the shoes thrown haphazardly under Ron's bed, the few books lying open and face down with their spines cracked. There was a sock covered in layers of dust on the windowsill. Beer bottles littered the floor around the wastebasket at the foot of his bed, toppled over by unopened mail and newspapers. He sighed, and flattened his hair.

When he stuffed the last of the laundry into a basket, he started gathering the weeks-old issues of the Daily Prophet. Then he spotted the dark purple envelope peeking out from underneath _Quidditch Through the Ages_. His throat closed and he looked around out of instinct as he snatched it up from the floor. The parchment slipped out of the ripped slit, and for a brief second Harry could see the black serif: ' _...pleased to offer you acceptance into the Junior Auror Division as of..._ '

He shoved the letter under his mattress, and tried his hardest not to think about it.

Filling out the application had been a rash decision, the product of a summer spent alone inside Grimmauld Place avoiding the near constant paparazzi and well-wishers that swarmed him whenever he dared to step outside. So he shrugged them off, had Kreacher run his errands, spent his days exploring each abandoned room as Kreacher slowly cleaned them out. Once in a while, he Flooed out to the Burrow when the invitations became demanding, if only to ease Ron's mind.

When the reply came a mere week later, the thought of having to fight again seemed to punch him in the throat. Each time the letter rose unbidden in his thoughts, he felt so tired that he wanted to return to bed, and each time he pushed off his reply. He had gotten used to the long stretch of the days blending together, and he felt loath to let go of that just yet.

He was picking up the last of the bottles and tossing them into a bag when he heard the roar of the fireplace come to life, and Mrs Weasley's muffled greeting. He tied the trash bag, and headed out to say hello on his way to the dumpster when he heard low arguing. He froze, unwilling to move in fear of discovery. Then he heard his name.

“...think that maybe you or Harry should be looking for a job?” Mrs Weasley pleaded lowly. “It's just that I worry, and it's not that I don't think you're doing the right thing, but really, when was the last time either of you—”

“I don't think you understand, Mum,” Ron said tiredly. “Harry hasn't been doing all that better, and I think if I leave him here he's just going to, I dunno, crawl into bed and maybe never get out. You saw what he was like.”

There was a long sigh. “That poor boy. Has he talked to you at all?”

“No. I don't think he knows I've noticed how he doesn't really... Well. You know. Take care of himself, I guess. He hasn't moved on, really.”

Harry swallowed, staring down at his feet, the bag of empty bottles clenched tightly. He hadn't really thought of it that way, that maybe he was keeping Ron from moving on, nor had he thought his newfound tendency to stay in was something to worry over. He certainly didn't think he was a poor boy.

He slipped back into the bedroom before he heard anything else. The last thing he wanted to hear was that once again, people had their lives come to a standstill because of him.

\--

King's Cross was crowded in the holiday season, the steam from the engines wafting lazily between passerby scrambling over the platform, bundled up in thick woolen coats and scarves. The sun had already set by the time they had rushed out of the apartment and into Muggle London; the fluorescent lighting lit up Ron's hair, who was pushing eagerly ahead through the sea of hassled-looking travelers. Harry dug his hands deeper in his pockets and followed the glint of red, the sense of having forgotten something important nagging him. It felt strange to approach the platform without lugging a heavy chest behind him, and he suddenly felt the absence of Hedwig keenly. He had never before come through the station without hearing the flutter of her feathers behind him.

Ron slowed his pace until Harry caught up as they approached the brick column separating Platforms 9 and 10. "Bit weird, innit? Not being on the train."

He shrugged, and pulled his hat down further over his forehead. Even here he could see a few people staring at him furtively, and he wished he had thought to wear a more effective disguise than just a hat with a wide brim and a week's worth of shadow on his jaw.

They casually leaned into the brick and fell through the gate. The Hogwarts Express had yet to arrive, and the sight of the empty tracks filled him with melancholy. He recognized faces in the milling crowd, familiar to him through the many years he spied them through the smudged windows of the train. It felt strange to see them up close. It felt even stranger to be a part of them now.

Harry could hear the whispers starting as people recognized Ron, and he could see them begin to figure out who his unshaven shabby friend was; he heard someone ask, _is that him, the Boy Who Lived_ , and he hunched his shoulders and shuffled closer to Ron, whose eyes were searching the platform. Ron frowned and turned slightly, his broad shoulders shielding them from view.

“Your mum isn't here yet?” Harry looked over his shoulder for the telltale Weasley red. Ron shrugged.

“She’s probably running late, what with Charlie coming today too.” He spread his hands. “Everyone is coming home for the holidays.”

“That’s nice,” Harry said vaguely. He relaxed a bit. He couldn’t stop thinking about the Floo call, and the thought of seeing pity on Mrs Weasley’s face made him want to hunch down even further.

In the distance the longhorn of the train signaled its pending arrival, and Ron turned his face towards it, his shoulders tense and his face full of longing. Harry bumped his shoulder gently, and let it rest there. He watched the Hogwarts Express emerge from the night, the red metal gleaming as it slid slowly into the station.

Through the windows he saw the eager faces of his former classmates, peering out at the crowd and waving manically; his eyes slid over each compartment, searching for a mass of brown curls or bright long red hair, anything—

“Ron! Harry!”

Suddenly his field of vision was obscured by brown curly hair and a vice of arms around his neck. He choked on a mouthful of hair and started laughing as he wrapped his arms around Hermione, who clung for a good second before stepping back, beaming brightly. Behind her stood Ginny, who grinned just as wide.

“Oh, it's so good to see you,” Hermione said mistily, and Ron wrapped his arms around her and spun her around. He almost hit them, Hermione's laughs muffled into his shoulder, and Ginny shoved them away with a giggle. Harry watched as Ron finally put her down and lean in. He looked away, and met Ginny's eyes.

“Hey,” said Harry, and he reached for her too, just as glad to see her as anyone. She was warm, and her braid knocked his glasses askew.

“Hey yourself, stranger,” Ginny said, pulling back and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Don't you write anymore, Potter?” Ginny hit his shoulder none too gently, a wry smile twisting her lips. “Fix that.”

He shoved his hat down further, feeling guilt unfurl. He had forgotten, and when he remembered it felt too awkward to start. “Err, yeah. God, I know, I'm sorry,” he said, and Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Don't do that. Just—I worry, you know?” she said. “And I do want to hear from you every once in a while. All Ron talks about is Hermione.” She looked over his shoulder and started waving furiously. Harry turned, and saw Mrs Weasley hurrying towards them, her shawl clutched tightly in a fist and a warm smile on her face. She looked overjoyed to see them all there, and she enveloped them all into a warm hug. She kissed Ginny's cheek, who rubbed her cheek but couldn’t hide her grin.

When she turned to do the same to Ron, he stepped away, unable to stop himself from wondering if she was furtively asking whether or not he was normal. The guilt grew, and he found he couldn't look her in the eyes even as Mrs Weasley hugged him tightly and smothered him in kisses.

“Oh, you look so thin,” she fussed, smoothing down Harry's hair and checking Ron over. She flicked her wand over Ginny's trunk and it shrunk and floated into her handbag. “You must be so hungry. Come along, I've left dinner on and Charlie should be arriving any time soon, with that new man of his—” Ginny immediately launched into inquiry, her eyes bright as she volleyed gossip with her mother.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione look forlornly over the platform, biting her lip and searching the people who were still waiting on the platform. He saw Ron hesitantly place a soothing hand on her back, and he approached her slowly, knowing what was missing.

“Were they supposed to be here?” Harry asked.

Hermione shook her head. “No. It's alright,” she said. “They're just... Adjusting. It’s colder in England than in Australia, and I think they rather liked the heat. Anyway,” she added, a forced cheer on her face. “I'm starving.”

“Well, we need to fix that, don't we?” Ron waved at his mother and Ginny, still talking in rapid tones. “Mum, we'll see you at Christmas?”

“Oh,” said Mrs Weasley, looking disappointed. “I was hoping all of you could come by for dinner.”

“Aw, Mum,” said Ron ruefully. “We'll see you in a week, it won't be too long. Besides, we gotta let Hermione settle in.”

Ginny linked her arm with her mother's, pulling her away gently when she looked like she wanted to argue. “C'mon, Mum,” she said cheerfully. “Anyway there won't be enough room, what with Charlie and his new man.” She winked at them and waved in goodbye.

Harry turned away. Hermione reached out and grabbed his hand, already holding Ron's, and she Apparated them away from Platform 9 ¾.

\--

He was walking through the forest again, the snitch clutched so tightly in his hand that he thought it might crack in two. There was the rustle of the veil looming behind him, the murmuring ringing in his ears; he was suddenly too afraid to turn around, unwilling to see just what specter might be floating out of the corner of his vision. He walked just a little bit faster, though it felt like walking underwater, the eerie silence drowning him.

He felt the snitch fluttering weakly in his fist, trying to escape and flit away into the trees. He brought it up to his mouth slowly as though forcing his arm through molasses, stared at the way his ragged breath misted the surface. Harry pressed his mouth against the cold gold, and felt the hull crack under his lips, and clenched his eyes tightly, knowing he'd see his ghosts waiting to lead him through the forest. He'd studied this memory so many times he could swear on the red of his mother's hair, the glint of his father's glasses, all echoing through the dullness of the Resurrection Stone—

The whisper of a touch to his wrist made him open his eyes. Instead of his mother smiling wanly at him, he saw Hermione and Ron, their silvery hands reaching out to touch his face.  
Oh, he thought he said. He tried to grab them but his hands slipped through them, unable to grasp air.

 _Come with us_ , they murmured, _come on Harry, it's not safe. Don't go_.

Behind them he could see the clearing full of Death Eaters getting closer. Voldemort stood tall among them, his serpentine features twisted into a macabre smile. He was waiting.

 _No_ , he said. _No, you have to leave, you can't be here._

Nagini, impossibly large, slithered silently towards them, her fangs gleaming as she blocked out the moonlight. Her scales coiled tightly around him, around Ron and Hermione, and as she descended with venom dripping onto his face Harry swore he could feel hands holding him steady, and he tried to fight his way out of the choke hold—

—and woke, his heart hammering as he took in the bare living room. The fire was burning low in the fireplace, and he flipped onto his back, rubbing his face and waiting for his heart to calm. The forest, again. It was the same every night. He sighed. Eventually he swung his legs down and sat up with a groan.

“Alright, Harry?” He jumped, eyes wide, until he saw Hermione nursing a mug in the kitchen, perched on the only stool Ron had managed to build. She had a book open in front of her, and she had wrapped Ron's bathrobe around her. The clock ticked past four in the morning.

“Yeah,” he said tiredly. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Couldn't sleep,” she said. She drank her tea and eyed him critically over the rim. “How long has it been since you last slept?”

Harry rubbed his neck, sore from sleeping on the couch. “I sleep every night,” he protested.

“Properly, I mean.” Hermione slipped a bookmark into her book and put the kettle on. “Ron said you've been having fits in your sleep every now and then.”

“I didn't think that was anything new,” he tried to joke.

The kettle started to whistle, and the cabinet hinges creaked as Hermione searched for tea. She sighed, muttered, “How can you find anything?” and waved her wand. Out of the left drawer, a bag of tea flew out and nestled into another mug.

“You know,” she began, and bit her lip. She stirred some milk into the mug, and brought it over, curling up against him, looking serious and sad. “It's okay to talk about—about what happened to you. It's not something to shoulder alone.”

She handed him the mug and gently wrapped a warm hand around his wrist. “You don't have to tell me or Ron, or even Ginny. But I think that maybe it's time you talked to someone.”

Harry didn't reply. He gripped his tea tightly and stared into the dying embers of the fire. He thought about Mrs Weasley’s concerns, Ron sounding tired as he told her he was obligated to stay.

“I don't think it's very healthy, holing yourself in here, even if it's with Ron.” Hermione withdrew her hand and wrapped it around her mug. “It's been months, and. Well. Have you heard back from the Aurors?”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably and flattened his hair. He thought about the letter stuffed under his mattress, and couldn't bring himself to lie. “Yeah,” he said reluctantly. But once again the idea of throwing himself back into the good fight was unwelcome; he didn't know if he could, not just yet. It felt too soon. His hands jerked, and the tea slopped over the side and ran down his hand. He felt like he was choking just thinking about it.

Hermione looked understanding. “It's okay if you need time too.” She pulled his blanket off the end of the sofa and wrapped them both up in its warmth. It was chilly, despite the fire.

“Anyway, why are you still up?” Harry asked, and swallowed. Hermione looked even more tired, the bags under her eyes as prominent as when exams rolled around.

“Couldn't sleep either,” Hermione said softly. “I've been having trouble too. It's nice, though. I think sleeping here has been more restful than at school.” She flushed when Harry looked pointedly at the bedroom, where they could both hear Ron's soft snoring. “Not like that! It's just... The dorms are so empty,” she said in a rush. “What with Lavender, and Parvati gone, and. I don't really like to sleep alone. Too quiet.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I get that.” And he did; the first month in Grimmauld Place he spent the nights lying awake in bed, each minuscule sound magnified by the dearth of any other life but him. It took sharing a room with Ron again to establish a semi-regular sleep schedule.

When the fire finally sputtered out, Hermione stood and stretched, her back cracking. She took both of their mugs, laid them in the sink, and she stretched out a hand. “Come on, Harry,” she said. “You look terrible, and this sofa can't be helpful. Come to bed.”

She led him into the bedroom, where Ron had sprawled over the bed. When Harry retreated towards his own bed, she grabbed his hand. “I have a better idea,” she whispered, and she waved her wand. The dresser flattened against the wall and Harry's bed shrunk.

“Hey,” he tried to protest, but then Hermione waved her wand again and Ron's bed expanded beneath him, who started awake with a grunt, his sleep cut off mid-snore.

“Whaaa—? 'Mione,” he mumbled, rolling over the new width of his bed. Hermione sat down on the edge, hanging the bathrobe over a bedpost. She pulled Harry down to sit next to her and took his glasses, setting them carefully on a pile of books.

“Shhh,” she soothed. Ron opened one eye sleepily, his face half-buried in his pillow. He looked over them with an unusually studious gaze, and then he rolled over to the edge of the bed.

“You look terrible, Harry,” he yawned, and opened his arms. “C'mon, then.” Hermione smiled at him softly.

“Are you sure? I mean—” he stuttered, feeling terribly silly. Ron laughed.

“Nah.” He scratched at his chest, already falling back to sleep. “'S cold, c'mon, just get in.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows and patted the bed patiently. Harry, feeling foolish, slid past Hermione and slipped into the warmth of the comforter. She curled into the space by his side, leaving Harry in the middle, and he flushed furiously. He awkwardly stiffened up away from them, looking out into darkness. He jerked when a freckled arm wrapped around him, pulling him against Ron’s chest. He turned his head, eyes wide.

“Go to sleep, yeah?” Ron mumbled into his neck, and started snoring again. Hermione eyed them fondly and closed her eyes too. She clasped Ron’s hand, effectively keeping Harry still between them. Her hair fell softly over his face.

Wrapped in their warmth, Harry slowly relaxed into their embrace, his eyes fluttering shut as he took in the sound of their breathing, steady and there. He thought about the way Nagini's coils tightened around him until he couldn't breathe, until all he could sense was Ron and Hermione and their hands pressed against him. He drew in a shuddering breath and screwed his eyes shut, afraid of dreaming again, but someone was rubbing soothing circles into his back, and it was the last thing he felt before something like peace claimed him.


End file.
